BLANCHE DORMER’S SURPRISE.
The peace and purity of the night indisposed Lois to talk, and Blanche
was meditating on how far the proprieties might admit of her sounding
her new friend on the subject of the supposed estrangement. So neither
spoke for several minutes.
“A night like this always reminds me of the moonlight-scene in the
‘Merchant of Venice,’” Blanche said, at length. “I was afraid the storm
would last until morning; perhaps I was also afraid mama would scold
terribly. But I think when she is really alarmed, she is too much upset
to be able to scold in proper style. I like these summer storms; the
weird lightning has such a mystic beauty of its own. I lost my head
this afternoon, but that was because we were in such a dangerous place,
and a little because I was frightened on your account, as you seemed so
terrified.”
“I am nervous in a storm, always,” Lois said deprecatingly, for she
felt ashamed of her weakness.
“I think it was a special mercy your friend, Captain Desfrayne, came to
our rescue. No doubt you were amazed when you saw him. But I suppose
you knew he was coming down to this neighborhood?”
“I know nothing of his movements or plans,” Lois replied calmly. “I
never heard his name until last Friday.”
Miss Dormer absolutely sprang back, and stared at her new friend in
speechless surprise. Her theory had been upset so precipitately that
she was at a loss for words.
“I--I thought--I fancied--that is----” she stammered, for she felt
fairly confounded, and much as if she had walked into a trap.
She heartily wished she could entirely control her amazement and
vexation at the absurdity of her mistake, but her looks and manner
betrayed her.
“What do you think?” innocently inquired Lois.
“Why--that is----”
“You hesitate, Blanche?”
“I am afraid you will be offended.”
“With you? Impossible. Pray be frank with me.”
“You promised not to be vexed?”
“I could not be vexed with you, my dear friend. What did you think?”
“Honestly, I thought you and Captain Desfrayne had had a lovers’
quarrel,” Blanche said.
Lois broke into a peal of silvery laughter, caused partly by surprise,
partly by pique and anger--not toward Blanche, but toward the unhappy
captain. She threw back her head with a little scornful gesture.
“You thought so? What could have led you to imagine such a strange
thing?”
“Because--I don’t know how I came to be so foolish, but--well, I saw
him look at you----”
“At me?”
“Aye, and you at him--come, you as good as promised not to be
cross--look and speak as if--as if--that is to say--well, in truth,
I can hardly say what caused me to jump to my odd conclusion, but I
did make the silly spring, and I find myself landed on exceedingly
unpleasant ground.”
Lois had known Blanche only two days, although she felt a strong
presentiment that the friendship just cemented would endure for
a lifetime. Blanche was the first friend she had ever possessed,
and she was sure she might be trusted, yet prudence caused her to
hesitate before entrusting Miss Dormer with the secret of her strange
relationship with Paul Desfrayne.
Blanche was fairly puzzled, and her feminine curiosity aroused. Quite
confident that Lois had spoken truly in saying that Captain Desfrayne
was almost a stranger to her, she yet could not help believing that
there was some good reason for her thinking that some more than
ordinary feeling caused a mutual interest or dislike.
Lois placed her arm caressingly round Blanche’s waist, and laid her
cheek on her shoulder.
“Blanche,” she said, “I am going to tell you something about myself and
Captain Desfrayne, which will, I have no doubt, surprise you.”
Miss Dormer shrank a little, as if she had been guilty of trying to
surprise a confidence she was not entitled to.
“I hope,” she said, “you do not think me inquisitive. I am sorry I
allowed myself to make any remarks.”
Lois smiled.
“You must let me enjoy the privileges of a friend,” she replied. “If
you will let me tell you, I think it would be a solace to me. For
although Lady Quaintree is so good and so kind, yet----”
She paused; for it would be impossible to enter into any of the
feelings which barred a perfect confidence between herself and her late
mistress. But Miss Dormer partially comprehended, and pressed her hands
warmly in token of sympathy and encouragement.
“No doubt you will wonder, knowing that my acquaintanceship with him
is of so recent a date--no doubt you will marvel to hear that I am
half-engaged to marry Captain Desfrayne,” began Lois.
“My dear!” was all Blanche could say, opening her eyes as wide as they
could expand.
“Yes. I can scarcely believe the story is real.”
Lois repeated to her the history of Mr. Vere Gardiner’s will. Blanche
listened in silent amazement.
“How extraordinary! Then, why--why----”
“Pray be as frank with me as I have been with you,” Lois entreated.
“Why does he behave in such an odd way toward you? Does the
proposition, or whatever you may call it, displease him?”
“I have had no explanation from him, nor is one likely to take place. I
am as ignorant as you are of his opinion on the matter.”
“What is your own?”
“I may truly say I feel mortified and vexed by being disposed of like a
bale of goods----”
“Not exactly, dearest girl. You are left an option.”
“I do not like Captain Desfrayne.”
“That can scarcely be wondered at, since he treats you so
coldly--almost rudely. What a strange old man this Vere Gardiner must
have been! Why should he take such a singular whim into his head?”
“I do not know. You now know as much--or as little--as I do myself.”
“It is a riddle,” said Blanche. “What does Lady Quaintree say?”
“She is very much pleased about the money and landed property--as
pleased and interested as if I were her own child; but she has not said
much about the proposition of marriage.”
“I suppose she wishes to see more of this gentleman. This afternoon,
when I first saw Captain Desfrayne, I liked him: he seemed nice, and
had such a gentle way with him, and his voice was pleasant. But now I
have taken a prejudice against him.”
At this moment, Blanche caught sight of her father, Squire Dormer, who
had just entered the drawing-room, where the elder ladies sat.
“Wait for me one moment here, dear Miss Turquand,” she said. “I will
run and ask papa if I must return to-night. Oh! I do hope he will let
me stay till to-morrow with you. Do you leave in the morning?”
“Lady Quaintree arranges everything,” answered Lois. “It will be just
as she orders.”
Blanche went back to the drawing-room. Lois remained on the terrace,
idly watching the weird shadows and sharp, silvery lights.
A step on the lower terrace for a moment alarmed her. But a glance
assured her that Captain Desfrayne was the intruder on the quiet of
that place. He was near enough to be able to address her without
raising his voice.
Not one word of the dialogue just interrupted had reached his ears.
“Are you not afraid of taking cold, Miss Turquand?” he asked, really
for want of something better to say.
“Thanks, no. It is such a lovely summer’s night. I am going back to the
drawing-room in one moment,” replied Lois.
With a quick movement, Paul Desfrayne ascended the steps leading from
the lower to the upper terrace, and in an instant was by her side.
“Miss Turquand----” he began, then his courage and the power of
expressing his scarcely formed ideas utterly failed him.
Lois’ heart throbbed painfully for a moment or two. She looked at
Captain Desfrayne, then averted her eyes without saying a word.
“I wished--I may not see you again for a long time, and I thought it
would be better to explain myself certain circumstances which it is of
paramount importance you should know than to trust others to do so, or
to endeavor to commit them to writing.”
“Circumstances?” repeated Lois. “Of what kind?”
“Circumstances connected entirely with my own history; but as--must I
say unhappily?--one who might be deemed the benefactor of us both--that
one has chosen to link our fate--your destiny and mine--together, to a
certain extent, it is your right to learn what otherwise----”
Paul felt conscious that every little speech he had attempted had
proved a wretched failure. He feared that the task he had undertaken
would prove beyond his strength or skill. What form of words should he
use? How possibly bring the subject of his marriage forward? It was
difficult enough in one way to break the seal of secrecy on the fatal
topic to his mother; with this girl of eighteen it would be a thousand
times more so.
“Miss Turquand,” he began, once again making another effort, “one chief
reason why I have not before informed you of these circumstances has
been that I really have not had the opportunity. The news that--in
fact, that is to say, the knowledge that I was to--in a word, the
contents of Mr. Vere Gardiner’s will came upon me like a thunderclap. I
did not even know your name until last Friday, when I had the pleasure
of seeing you for the first time. Why Mr. Vere Gardiner should have
seen fit to make such a singular arrangement, I cannot conceive. I
met him but once, so far as I am aware. He knew nothing of my private
affairs. No doubt he meant well. It would, perhaps, be ungrateful on my
part to find fault with his good intentions; but it is to be regretted
that he could not fix on some more worthy object of his bounty than
myself, or, at least, that he attached conditions to his munificent
gifts which it is absolutely impossible I can fulfil.”
Lois’ eyes were kindling with the varying sensations that rose in her
heart as she listened. With the swiftness of an already overexcited
brain, her imagination ran rapidly through every conceivable range of
impediments, except the one that really existed.
She looked so lovely, so graceful, so ethereal in the cross-light,
that, as Paul Desfrayne looked down upon her fair, English face and
beautiful figure, he felt a strange yearning desire to take her for
a moment in his arms, and press one kiss upon the half-open rose-bud
lips. More than ever he cursed the mad folly that had made him link
those heavy chains upon his life that might never be loosened this side
the grave.
What was he about to tell her? Lois rested her hand on the stone ledge
of the balustrade; for she felt unnerved and agitated.
Paul Desfrayne was silent for some moments. Lois had only spoken once
since he had joined her.
Blanche, having ascertained to her great satisfaction that she would be
allowed to stay all night, and partly settled a newly started scheme
for a tour of some weeks with the Quaintrees, was about to rush back
to Lois’ side. But her quick glance had discovered how her friend
was employed, and she drew back before she had made three steps. She
discreetly returned into the drawing-room, and sat down at the piano.
Lady Quaintree began to wonder greatly why Captain Desfrayne had
not come to ask for a cup of coffee, and she now missed her young
companion. It did not suit her plan of operations to let them have an
opportunity of entering into any mutual explanations of which she might
not be immediately cognizant. Therefore, observing that Blanche was
alone, she asked:
“Where is Lois, my dear?”
“I left her on the terrace, ma’am,” answered Blanche, turning round on
her music-stool.
“Alone, Blanche?”
“Yes--no. I did leave her alone; but I think she is talking to Captain
Desfrayne now.”
“Oh, indeed! They are very foolish. I am sure they will take cold,”
said my lady, with an air of careless semi-interest.
Blanche turned again to her board of black and white ivory keys, and
began running brilliant roulades. Mrs. Dormer asked her husband some
questions about the state of the roads after the deluge of rain that
had fallen, and in a few minutes Lady Quaintree found that she had an
excellent opportunity of rising almost unobserved, and moving across to
the windows, which all opened directly upon the terrace.
She moved gently, with a soft, silken rustle, from one window to
another, until she arrived at one where she could command a perfect
view of the two figures standing in the moonlight.
It thus happened that, as Paul Desfrayne spoke those words declaring
his inability to carry out any share in the dead man’s wishes, Lady
Quaintree was in the act of drawing open the window against which he
had accidentally placed himself.
Her ladyship would have disdained to play the part of eavesdropper,
for she was a woman of high principle, although she deemed herself
justified in thus interrupting what might be a critical explanation.
She, therefore, heard nothing of what the young officer had been saying.
Lois could not conceive why there should be such a tender sorrow in
Captain Desfrayne’s eyes, such a pathetic ring in his voice, such an
echo of grief and despair in his words. With an eager unrest, she
waited for the next words, which should explain the reason of the young
man’s inability to profit by the clauses in the old man’s will. But,
instead of the tender tones of his voice, the suave, well-bred accents
of Lady Quaintree sounded in her ears. With a great start, she turned
and faced her ladyship; Paul Desfrayne did the same.
“My dearest pet, you really ought not to linger here in the night air,”
said my lady. “I fancy Mrs. Dormer has been wondering where you have
vanished to. Really, however, I am not surprised, the beauty of the
night has tempted you to breathe its freshness and fragrance; it is so
close and sultry within. Give me your arm, my love; I will take just
one turn, and then we will go in and let Captain Desfrayne and Mrs.
Dormer have a little music.”
“Allow me, madam,” said the young man, offering his arm.
Lady Quaintree passed her hand lightly through the proffered support,
and, thus escorted, promenaded to and fro for about five minutes; Lois,
on her left, attending her. Her ladyship was in charming spirits, and
to any less preoccupied companions would have been most amusing.
The lively nothings she rattled off fell on dull and indifferent ears,
however, and she could extract little beyond abstracted monosyllables
from Captain Desfrayne, and an occasional languid smile or a
half-absent “yes” or “no” from Miss Turquand.
“Would it be of any use offering you shelter for the night, Captain
Desfrayne?” she asked, with a winning smile. “My dear young friend
has appointed me viceroy over her house for the present. We shall be
delighted to show you as much hospitality as our means will admit.”
“You are very kind, and I am already indebted to you for the goodness
and consideration which you have this day shown me,” answered Paul
Desfrayne. “But I really must return to my quarters to-night.”
“It will be a long and lonely ride,” objected Lady Quaintree. “Can we
order one of the carriages for your service?”
“No, thanks. I should greatly prefer riding.”
“Do you need a groom, or a guide of any kind?”
“I knew this neighborhood perfectly well when a boy, and have not
forgotten one lane or valley or hedgerow, I believe.”
Presently Lady Quaintree turned to go in, saying they must not neglect
their other guests.
She passed in first, Paul Desfrayne lingered for a moment, and
involuntarily fixed his eyes upon Lois. They were full of an unspoken
eloquence, and revealed volumes of despair, of regret, of deep and mute
feelings which rose like some troubled revelation.
Lois could not but read this glance, which perplexed her more than his
few bitter words of absolute renunciation had done.
The young man knew that this chance for an explanation was gone. When
might the next occur? He scarcely knew whether to feel relieved by the
postponement of a painful duty, or vexed by the fact that he was worse
placed than if he had remained absolutely silent.
“I can write to her to-morrow,” he thought, though he doubted if he
could nerve himself to the task.
“What can he have wished to tell me?” Lois asked herself vainly;
for although she racked her brain for an answer, none sufficiently
plausible presented itself.
They were not alone for a single moment during the remaining hour that
Paul Desfrayne lingered. The Dormers went past the barracks on their
way home, but he declined a seat in their carriage, as he preferred to
ride, he said.
He left the house with them, however, riding a short way by their
carriage, and then, putting spurs to his horse, dashed at almost a
reckless pace toward his quarters.
It might almost be imagined that a kind of second sight, some sort
of spiritual influence, was drawing him to the place where Gilardoni
awaited him.
As he took leave of Miss Turquand, he held her hand for some brief
moments, and again looked into the clear depths of her eyes.
A deep sigh escaped him as he released the hand he had
half-unconsciously retained. Lois heard the sigh, and it was echoed in
her heart.
Alas! What was the fatal impediment? Not dislike for herself--she felt
sure of that. Her pique and resentment were rapidly melting away under
the dangerous fire of love and pity.
He left her a prey to unrest, impatience, wonderment, the only solace
being that she felt confident he would take the earliest opportunity of
giving her the explanation thus vexatiously interrupted. She surmised
that a letter might possibly reach her some time the next day, or
perhaps he might call. It would be so natural for him to come, with
the object of ascertaining how she and Miss Dormer were after their
fright.
Somehow, she did not care to inform Lady Quaintree of what he had said,
nor did her ladyship make the slightest approach to an inquiry. But
when Lady Quaintree proposed to quit Flore Hall early the following
day, she eagerly desired to stay, alleging truly that she was anything
but well, as her fainting-fit and the alarm she had suffered had
unhinged her nerves.
“Just as you please, my love. I will not dictate to you in your own
house, and certainly you and dear Blanche do look very pale, so perhaps
a day’s rest will be desirable. But really I shall not be able to
remain for more than one day longer. I have so many engagements----”
And she affected to consult a dainty blue-and-gold note-book, which
assuredly did contain a sufficiently full program for the week, but
which would not have bound her if she had not found it convenient.
With Blanche, Lois was more open. Miss Dormer came for a little while
into her room, which the girls would gladly have shared, and listened
with absorbed interest to the brief account of the mysterious words
spoken on the terrace.
When Lois paused, Blanche reflected seriously.
“You have not consulted Lady Quaintree yet, since he said these
singular things?” she asked.
“No,” replied Lois, in a low, constrained voice.
“Is it too late to speak to her now?”
Lois shrank back.
“I know it would be best,” she said; “and yet--and yet I do not
like to speak to her until I have something more definite to say.
She has always been kind and good to me; but you must remember that
she has been my mistress, far above me in every respect; and I can
scarcely----I know I am wrong, ungrateful, and yet----”
Blanche smiled, and shrugged her pretty shoulders almost imperceptibly.
“I understand,” she said, very softly. “I suppose Captain Desfrayne
will explain himself to her. I wonder much he has not tried to do so
to-night. He might easily have found, or made, an opportunity. You
have told me exactly what he said?”
“Word for word. It seems imprinted on my memory, and every sentence
seems still sounding in my ears. I suppose I was so startled that it
made a particular impression on me.”
“Shall I tell you what my opinion is? Probably within a few
days--perhaps to-morrow--you will learn the truth. But may I hazard a
guess?”
“Pray tell me what you think, my dear friend.”
Blanche fixed her eyes on the pale face of Lois.
“It is my belief,” she said, very slowly, speaking as if
deliberately--“it is my firm conviction that he is secretly married.”
Lois shrank back once more. Such an idea had not occurred to her; but
she could not refuse to see the probability of the suggestion. She was
unable to speak. Somehow, ice seemed to fall upon her heart.
“Secretly married!” she at length echoed faintly. “Why should he be
ashamed or afraid to acknowledge such a thing?”
“That remains to be seen,” replied Miss Dormer. “But I believe such
to be the fact. I have read and heard of many cases where gentlemen,
handsome and proud as Captain Desfrayne, have married persons whom they
had every reason to be ashamed of. But he may not be ashamed of his
marriage, my dear. There are many reasons why people conceal that they
are married.”
Long after Blanche quitted her, Lois remained gazing from her open
window, painfully meditating. He was perhaps, then, already married?
Tired, agitated, weak from fright and from the strain on her nervous
system, the young girl rested her head upon her hands, and a few tears
trickled over her fingers. She started up.
“What folly!” she muttered. “Why do I dwell so much on the words he
spoke to-night? What does it signify? I do not care for him. He is
a stranger to me, and likely to remain such. When I have been duly
informed of the reasons why he is unable to assist me in doubling my
fortune by marrying me, there will be an end of the matter. I am
almost sorry now I did not agree to Lady Quaintree’s suggestion, and
return to London to-morrow. Probably he will send a letter to her
ladyship by his servant some time to-morrow afternoon. I do not wish to
marry him. I will never marry any one I do not love, and I have never
yet seen any one I could really care for. I will go to bed, and get to
sleep, as I ought to have done about two hours ago.”
She did go to bed; but the effort to sleep was quite an abortive one.
Feverishly she turned from side to side, unable to rid herself of the
memory of those eloquent glances, those deeply regretful broken words,
those pathetic tones.
Until at last she arrived at the conclusion that she would willingly
have forfeited her newly acquired fortune never to have heard of or
seen Paul Desfrayne.